Nothing

When the money came, she was stunned. The thunderous crack of acknowledgement surprised her from the mundane existence she had created for herself. Those who knew her well, witness to her shedding and becoming, knew it was only a matter of time though. Enough money to make a difference. Enough to fortify her. Not enough to satiate her or diminish her desires. The money gave her an ease of movement with a higher dedication to her calling. It changed nothing, and everything. She still had a phone with cracks in the screen and a computer with a wonky space bar. She still wore the same worn out sweaters, holes in the hems and armpits. She still drank her favorite tea at night, quietly, reading. But it freed her significantly. Her time belonged to her. She could come and go as she pleased, take projects as she pleased, indulge curiosities as she pleased. Like I said, the money changed nothing, and everything.

She settled into her new life of nothing-but-everything-changed well. She’d rise with the sun, pad languidly into the kitchen and, like every morning before, put on the kettle. She’d grind her coffee and add her spices. She’d find socks to cover her always cold toes. Her body would slowly rouse, every new breath bringing in air but also vibrance. Sitting facing the window, watching the colors of the sky dance into daylight, she would alight with it. If you’ve ever been lucky enough to share her bed, watch her waking, and you were paying attention, you’d realize the power that drove her was beyond money or fame or accolades, all of which she was piling up neatly since the money arrived. She was driven clearly and succinctly by devotion, by creation, by expansion. Making her both painstakingly vulnerable and unbearably formidable in the same glance. She was content. It radiated from her, warming every space she moved through, every person she worked through. And it was contagious. Dismal melancholy would become a concerned teacher. Pensive moods transformed to best friends. She could hold you in joy or pain, or the union of the two one so often experiences.

Never one for big surprises; grocery store flowers from a friend, the shimmer of sunlight on water, a peek into someone’s backyard garden just as the tomatoes are ripening on the vine or a stray cat rubbing on her legs before darting away, these were her favorite surprises. The money was surprise enough for this lifetime, earned on a whim and much encouragement from trusted friends. It was a joy to be in possession of but the book; the book was not a surprise she welcomed. She’d confide in you now that while the money was a rogue wave, the book was a tsunami. It wrecked her. Washed away the reality she set up for herself leaving behind a new and raw landscape. She felt strangely exposed. Something so small, small enough to fit in a properly sized pocket, yet overflowing with exposure.

The money had touched her on the surface of her life, making daily decisions easier, lighter, calm. The book, in contrast, touched her deep into her fears, her emotions, her desires. It dragged her out to sea, every move carefully calculated so as not to lose sight of the shoreline. She carried it with her everywhere. Referencing it, losing herself in its pages, hoping for its dissolution. Depleting it’s pages with dirty fingers, battering its cover, eroding its allure. Yet every time she closed it, her world would close with it. Every opening, she would open as well. How had this tiny, fine lined book become her siren song? And what does one do with such a neatly composed siren song? She decided to do nothing with it. Let it fade into distant memory as a sunset does. But it did not fade, she could not experience the deep without impact. Mornings turned from gentle rousings to sudden, clapping awakenings. Urgency overran her. She exhausted herself. She, like a ship captain’s wife, would stay up late into the evenings looking for solace. A solace she could not articulate. She was drowning in her rejection of the book. Breathing water into her lungs where only breathe should be. She had to open the book again, and with it be open to the fullness of its gift.

She made a study of it. She treated it as an explorer would treat an abyss. She dove deep to its recesses, to its origin. She examined its evolution. She traced its surfacing. And she saw it for the first time, exactly as it was. The money had been an acknowledgement of her talent and person, the book was acknowledgment of her soul. And for the first time she saw the inextricable beauty of the unseen being seen. It changed everything, and everything...